


Union of the Divine

by ANocturnalCow212



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Cunnilingus, F/M, High Priestess Sansa, King Jon Snow, Masturbation, public bedding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-02
Updated: 2018-02-02
Packaged: 2019-03-12 18:38:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13553250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ANocturnalCow212/pseuds/ANocturnalCow212
Summary: Sansa takes an oath to serve as priestess to the Seven around the same time Jon swears his oath to the Night's Watch. After the Great War, Jon is named King of the Seven Kingdoms and Sansa is High Priestess of the Temple of Baelor in King's Landing. Together, they must honor tradition and enter a divine union that must be consummated before the entire city.Written for Day 1 of Jonsa Kinkweek 2018: Public Bedding





	1. Chapter 1

Serving the Night’s Watch was a great honor. Any man could climb its ranks. Even a bastard like Jon. Someday he could even make Lord Commander. The thought chased all sleep from his eyes. Which was why he was wide awake, roaming the castle at night when everyone slept. He knew he’d come to regret not getting a full night’s sleep. King Robert and his lavish retinue were demanding folk. No hand was to remain idle so long as they stayed at Winterfell.

They were all such pricks, the southerners; Prince Joffrey the greatest one of them all. Jon wished he’d been trueborn so he could challenge the prick to a duel. To think Sansa was betrothed to him! Jon never doubted his incomparably beautiful sister would be queen someday. Just not to that prick’s queen. Anybody but him.

He arrived at the kennels in a huff, and let Ghost out. A companion would quiet the listlessness plaguing him. Or so he hoped. He had just coaxed Shaggy Dog and Summer back into their pens when he saw his Lord Father heading to the Maester’s tower, tightening his furs around his shoulders.

“Father!”

Ned Stark stopped in his tracks. A dark shadow weighed upon his lordly brow. He was somber by nature, much like Jon himself, but Jon was quick to read the undercurrent of panic under his father’s stoic features.

“Jon, what are you doing out of bed?”

“What’s wrong? Has her Ladyship taken ill?”

“Catelyn? No, no…” He looked ahead at the Maester’s Tower and then at Jon with a sigh. “It’s Sansa.”

Jon’s heart clenched. It was that prick, Joffrey! He had seen the way he looked at her. Bastard or no, Jon would certainly wring his neck now.

“She’s in perfect health.” Ned was quick to assure him. “It’s just that…well, this is the third time in as many nights…”

“What? Father, tell me.”

“You’ll not go about telling everyone? Not even Theon.”

“I swear it.”

A slight tremor laced Ned’s voice. “Sansa’s been having visions.”

“Dreams, you mean?”

“Perhaps. But I’ve heard of such visions during my time down south. I’m afraid it may be a sign. A force that’ll consume Sansa if we ignore it.” The admission seemed to shrivel Ned’s imposing stature. “I must discuss the matter with Maester Luwin. Off to bed with you now.”

With a flourish of his cloak he resumed his walk to the tower. Jon had half a mind to follow, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to learn more. There was something worse than Joffrey after Sansa. And he would soon be leaving Winterfell.

#

Jon’s thoughts kept circling back to Sansa’s visions as the world around him crumbled, piece by piece. First, Bran fell from the Bell Tower. Then, Sansa’s betrothal to Joffrey was severed. Overcome by grief, Sansa had shut herself away in her chambers, refusing to see anyone or eat anything. Jon wondered if his ill wishes were to blame for her misery. If her visions were only warning her of the danger her bastard brother posed. As far as brothers and sisters go, they were never close; not the way he and Arya were. But Jon was still fond of Sansa—in the way any lowly bastard boy would be of a gentle lady who spared him a radiant smile every once in a while. To think he had somehow caused her pain made him miserable.

The day before he was to leave for Castle Black with Uncle Benjen, he went to the Godswood with ample time on his hands. There was a Heart Tree just beyond the Wall, and they said the Gods could hear one wherever they were, but Jon felt they’d hear him best at home.

There was another present when he arrived. Sansa. She was not at prayer. Only sitting idle by the pool, listening to the soft rustle of leaves in the autumn breeze. Her fiery red hair was bound in a messy braid and her eyes were swollen from crying. Still, she smiled when she saw Jon approaching. His breath faltered at the sight of it and a dull pain pressed against his chest.

“Sansa…”

She stood. “Hello, Jon. Would you like some privacy?”

“No, no…stay. It’s good to see you.”

She hummed. “I hear you and Uncle Benjen will leave with us tomorrow.”

Jon’s brows furrowed. “Us? You mean…but I thought your betrothal…”

“No, I’m not marrying Joffrey.” Sansa choked on a sob. “But I can’t stay here. It’s not for the Old Gods to protect me.”

 _The hell it’s not._ Jon pumped his chest. “Sansa, you are father’s trueborn daughter. Winterfell is where you belong.”

“I know, Jon. But my path lies in the south, at the Temple of Baelor.”

Jon balked.

“I am to swear an oath like you, Jon.” There was a wistful glint in her eyes. “I’ve heard the call, and now I must answer.”

“But—“ Jon knew the oath he had to swear by heart. He was to take no family. And father no sons. The Kingsguard swore a similar oath. What if…But surely _Sansa_ , the girl destined to be a queen and a mother, would never swear such an oath.

“It’s different,” Sansa said, the quiet of her voice failing to mask her trepidation. “But if a priestess is what I’m meant to be, I can’t be anything else. Maester Luwin said to deny such a call would drive me mad.”

 _Maester Luwin doesn’t know horseshit._ Jon had never felt he’d go mad if he didn’t join the Night’s Watch. He _chose_ it for himself.

“Sansa, you were meant to be a lady.”

“I wasn’t, Jon. If I’m sure of anything, it’s this one thing.”

Jon opened his mouth to protest, but Sansa cut him off.

“Please don’t, Jon. I’ve torn myself apart to come to this decision. You don’t know…you don’t know what it’s like to feel cursed. I thought…I thought that what happened to Bran was somehow my fault. Oh Jon, I could’ve died from guilt.”

“No…no…” Without a moment’s hesitation, Jon wrapped his arms around her and pulled her into a hug. He had never done it, and he lamented this may have been the only time he could. “Sansa, you are and always were a blessing to this castle. Did you know, when you were born, the bells rang from dawn to sundown?”

He felt her smile into his chest. Inside, his heart blossomed with pride. He had made her happy. Pulling away from her, he stroked her hair and drew her close to kiss her forehead.

“Promise me, Jon. Promise me, you’ll come visit me in King’s Landing someday.”

“Well, if what Uncle Benjen says is true, I’ll freeze to death before the year’s out.”

Sansa punched him in the chest.

“All right, all right, I’ll come visit.”

Beaming, Sansa rose to the tip of her toes to place a kiss on his cheeks. She left him to say his prayers. Jon couldn’t help but look on as she left. He felt oddly sad they had not shared their newly kindled bond longer.


	2. Chapter 2

Jon refused to answer to the name his mother had allegedly given him. Aemon Targaryen. It didn’t suit him. Aemon Targaryen was the kindly blind maester at Castle Black. Not him. Never him. He wasn’t Jon Stark either. Just Jon. Jon Snow. Well, King Jon, actually. There was no escaping _that_ detail.

Victory over the undead had been hard-earned and bittersweet. The realm would live to see the spring, but Jon’s reality remained unchanged. He was alone, without a family, and, though he was hailed as the realm’s savior, his Targaryen lineage had once again made him an outsider. Even more so than he had been as Winterfell’s bastard, as a high lord’s son among crooks in the Night’s Watch, or as a brother of the Night’s Watch among the Wildlings.

Snow. His bond to the north was the only thing he was certain of. And now that he was to rule the Seven Kingdoms from King’s Landing, he would not renounce the name at any price. So, after much deliberation among his small council, it was King Jon Snow who arrived at the gates of the capital.

The tour through his kingdom had been strenuous, if a little frustrating. Not just because Jon had to spend hours assuring his people he would help them recover and rebuild, or because a new title found purchase after his name after every break on their route. He was anxious to get to King’s Landing to see Sansa. If she was still alive.

He had not heard from her since they parted ways eight years prior. He had thought to send a raven when news of his uncle’s execution reached him, but Maester Aemon had advised him against it. Cersei Lannister was a mistrustful, unforgiving woman. She would not have spared Sansa if she discovered Sansa had corresponded with the outside world. Jon knew her oath to the Seven, and her renunciation of all worldly titles offered her some protection from Cersei’s ire, but there was no knowing if it was enough. After King’s Landing fell, he had sent a raven inquiring after her. He had departed Winterfell before receiving a reply.

So close to obtaining his answer, he could barely contain the thrill rippling through him when the city gates were thrown open. The procession through the city was slow on account of the pageantry on display. It did not escape him that all the jubilation, the song and high praise—they were all meant for him. It reminded him of being elected Lord Commander, and how that had ended. Yes, not much had changed.

Before heading to the Red Keep, it was customary for returning—or in Jon’s case, newly arriving—kings to pay their respects to the Seven at the Temple of Baelor. Jon still believed in the Old Gods, but he had been resurrected by the Lord of Light, and was now to rule a people who had once punished their Queen for heresy. All gods held power over people. And that power was not to be taken lightly. Besides, now he would know once and for all if his lovely cousin had survived the ravages of war.

Jon and his retinue dismounted at the base of the temple’s steps to a shower of dried flower petals. He was momentarily blinded by the piercing noon sun as he raised his gaze up the marble steps to the entrance. On shielding his eyes, he saw a line of women in sheer veils and billowing cloaks waiting on the porch atop the steps. At their center stood a tall figure in a royal blue cloak. A bronze diadem held her sheer veil in place. It did little to subdue the unmistakable bright red of her flowing, waist-length hair.

Jon’s breath faltered. Eight years had not diminished his memories. It was her. Alive and well. He would not be alone in this strange place. He had family.

Tuning out the crowds below, he ascended two steps at a time. His better judgement reminded king must mind a foreign land’s decorum. There was something he was meant to do before fraternizing with servants of the Seven. But it didn’t come to him. He strode right up to Sansa.

Her veil obscured her features. Jon’s eyes raked over the material, its peaks and troughs, in search the fine line of her nose, or the crystalline blue of her eyes. He was given naught. Not even the butterflies in his stomach were reflected in her impeccably statuesque posture.

To her side, a fellow priestess presented her with a cushion holding a wreath of twigs. Weirwood, Jon realized from the distinctive red flowers threaded through them. Raising it over Jon’s head, Sansa spoke loud enough for the smallfolk below to hear:

“The Seven welcome you home, my King.” She set the wreath on his head. “Blessed be your reign. And long may you live.”

“Long live the king! Long live the king!” The smallfolk chanted.

Sansa and the other priestesses knelt before him. Jon abashedly looked about him. His entire retinue…the whole city, for that matter, followed suit.

“Your hands,” Sam murmured, his eyes downcast in a show of respect. “Give her your hands.”

Jon obliged, regretting not having scrubbed his nails clean. Sansa took his hands in hers, kissed them both through her veil, and raised them to her eyes. Then, she stood, and her priestesses broke into a chorus of ululations. Before Jon could get a word out, she and the other women retreated through the colonnade.

 _That’s it?_ No rejoicing on seeing her cousin after all these years. Not even the slightest sign of recognition, let alone recollection of the embrace they had shared in Winterfell’s Godswood. He was but another power hungry man to her. The mere notion made Jon irritable.

Without any prodding from his advisors, he followed in her heels. As soon as they had crossed into the colonnade, and the columns’ shadow unfurled a natural curtain between them and the smallfolk, Sansa lifted her veil. Jon skidded to a halt. Her blue eyes glistened with joy and her smile made his knees week. Without warning, she pounced on him, engulfing him in a sweet, smoky, intoxicating smell that unraveled something inside him.

“Oh Jon!” She said, squeezing him tight. “Oh, dear, sweet, Jon, I can’t believe you’re here!”

Too tongue-tied, Jon gave her a sheepish grin.

“You look so grown-up.” She giggled and scratched his beard affectionately. “Dare I say, that somber brow of yours is quite becoming now that you’re king.”

Jon laughed. Wholeheartedly. For the first time in two lifetimes. “And you, Sansa…” _Men would have gone to war over you had you not forsaken everything._

As though she read his mind, Sansa ducked her head to hide her reddening cheeks. Taking him by the hand, she said, “Come, you must pay your respects to the Seven before you set foot in your new home.”

The river of priestesses parted to let them through to the temple’s interior. Looking from their lavender robes, to Sansa’s gold embroidered blue ones, Jon recalled what he had forgotten about the formalities he was to follow at the Temple. Sam and Tyrion had briefed him that all his primary interactions with the temple would be through its High Priestess. Jon wondered if Sansa was leading him to her now, or if…

Her bestowing of the wreath. The diadem on her head. How could he have been so daft? Sansa _was_ the High Priestess of the Temple of Baelor. That young girl crying in the Godswood because she thought she was cursed—she was now the second most powerful figure in King’s Landing. Jon’s heart warmed at the thought. Of course, Sansa would have climbed up the ranks. Why wouldn’t she if he had done the same?

An overbearing scent of incense assaulted Jon’s nostrils upon entering the cella. Beams of sunlight poured into the oblong, smoky, high-ceilinged chamber giving the impression he had walked into a distant memory of a dream. Grounding his senses, relaxing his nostrils, he looked upon the seven stone statues rising from an altar at the far end of the chamber, watching over an earthen drum of fire. The Eternal Flame.

“Follow my lead.” Letting go of Jon’s hand, Sansa pulled her veil from her diadem’s constraints and handed it over to a waiting priestess. She prostrated before the idols. Then, climbing up the altar, guided him to each of the idols so he could light sticks of incense and lay offerings of flowers and trinkets at their feet. Finally, she handed him a spoon with which he poured a dollop of oil into the Eternal Flame. The fire spat ecstatic embers in answer.

His part in the ritual complete, Sansa motioned for him to get down and take a seat beside Sam, Tyrion, Ser Davos, and Lady Brienne. She shrugged out of her embroidered cloak, bearing her toned porcellain arms. The robes of fine blue muslin underneath were fastened at the shoulders by bronze brooches; the fabric so delicate it clung to every curve and swell of her body.

Jon’s mouth went dry. It had to be the incense, the fire, the close quarters. _Nothing some fresh air won’t fix._

The other priestesses joined Sansa around the fire as she dropped another dollop of oil into it. They recited a prayer. A chant more like it. One that swung with a melody the longer they carried on. Jon gulped on seeing Sansa’s hips roll in time with their hymn. Soon they were circling around the flames, undulating their bodies in ways Jon would not have dreamed possible. Watching them felt perilous—like he was giving up his free will—but he could not bring himself to look away.

Sansa. He sought only her. To anchor himself. To remind himself who he was. But her eyes were shut and, all too consumed by the mystical fog descending on them all, she crooned in gasps and moans. Watching her woke a beastly hunger in Jon. Watching her stirred more than familial love in his body. Watching her fanned the unforgiveably daft urge to put his hand out and dip it in a sea of raging fire.

Jon shifted uncomfortably in his seat, thinking of all manner of unpleasant things to rid himself of the hardening in his loins. When the hymn ended, he thought his blaring heart would expose him as the base bastard he really was. He looked up to find Sansa looking at him, her face flushed, and her chest heaving. As though she was coming down from a pleasurable high.

It was Jon’s turn to blush. He could not meet Sansa’s gaze. Lucky for him, his obligations at the temple were concluded for the day, and he was promptly herded out by his retinue.

#

By the time Jon saw Sansa later that night for the feast at the Red Keep, he had managed to explain away his urges as an effect of fatigue and the potent fumes. He was determined never to think of it again.

It was a matter of great fortune that Sansa was High Priestess. She had the ear of the people and, as such, would play a crucial role in his small council. To distance himself from her would not only lose him his only family in this foreign land, it would pave the path for another mutiny. And he was no northern fool.

Seeing her make her rounds at the feast made things much easier. She may have renounced her name, but she was still every bit Catelyn Stark’s daughter. She expertly wove through the hall to make acquaintances with guests, charmed them, bid they fill their stomachs as they pleased, and listened as they unburdened their consciences. Jon watched it all, enraptured, oblivious to all else. It seemed an age before she came and sat beside him in the chair Tyrion had left empty.

“Oh, don’t look so glum, Jon,” Sansa teased. “Your reign has only just begun. I assure you it’ll get much worse than this.” She waved at the merriment before them.

“I’m just glad you’re alive and well.” His lips pulled up in a melancholy smile. “I meant to write after father—“

Sansa squeezed his hand. “I’m glad you didn’t. If word reached Cersei, she would’ve thought I was conspiring against her.”

Jon nodded. “That’s what Maester Aemon said. Still, I _am_ sorry. Do you forgive me?”

“Jon,” Sansa murmured, “there’s nothing to forgive.”

“ _Forgive_ me.”

“All right, _my king._ If you so bid, I forgive you.”

“Good.”

They slipped into reminiscing about Winterfell and the family they had lost. Both only scratched the surfaces of their respective journeys. They had weathered so much. It would take more than a single evening to share every twist and turn. Still, they talked. And Jon marveled at how easy it was.

Hours passed. The numbers in the Hall thinned. Jon and Sansa paid their surroundings no heed. They would have continued talking till dawn if a drunken Tyrion had not stumbled into Sansa’s chair.

“What’s this now? Ah, Your Holiness!” He clumsily bowed to Sansa before pulling up a seat. “Are we discussing the wedding, then?”

Sansa shot Tyrion a warning look.

Jon knit his brows. “Wedding?”

“Well, yes.” Tyrion sputtered. “It is tradition for the king to wed and bed the night of his coronation.”

Jon bristled. He knew it was only a matter of time before he needed to wed and sire heirs, but surely he should have been made privy to any deliberation over the matter. “Oh? And who am I to marry?”

“Why, this beautiful creature right here, of course!” He motioned at Sansa. “You’re a lucky man, Your Grace. Joffrey had to bed the old crone before her.” Then, “Did Maester Tarly not mention this to you?”

Jon inhaled sharply before breaking into incredulous laughter. He waited for Tyrion and Sansa to join in, but their faces remained deadly serious. Rising to her feet, Sansa excused herself, and led Jon out of the Great Hall into a small sitting room where she shut the door so they weren’t interrupted.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Jon asked. Angry. Frightened.

“It’s true.” Sansa laced and unlaced her fingers. “As the one bestowed with the divine right to rule, you must ally with the Seven by marrying their Chosen Daughter.” She bounced on the balls of her feet in search of the right words. “It’s not a marriage in the true sense. You’ll still take a suitable wife and sire heirs.”

 “Sansa, if this is your idea of a joke…”

“I’m not joking, Jon. It is the way of the Seven. If you’re going to embrace the religion of your people, I’m afraid this is what you’ll have to do.”

Jon was appalled. Not by the ritual itself—Melisandre _had_ propositioned him in the name of piety once before—but by the whirlpool of indignity and triumph wrenching his innards. From the tumult arose a long dormant possessiveness he had never cared to acknowledge. The root of it—Sansa. Her treading a path that made such base demands of her. Her lying with strange men in the name of piety. No, Jon was not appalled by prospect of lying with Sansa. He was irked knowing that he was not the first king to have ascended the Iron Throne since she left Winterfell.

“And you-you’re comfortable with this? You’ve – did you have to – who did you—“

“Mother Sibila was still High Priestess when Joffrey and Tommen took the throne. By the time Cersei took the throne, she’d stopped spilling her moon’s blood so the duty fell to me.”

Jon blinked. “H-how – I didn’t know a woman and woman cou—“

“We can. Sometimes to better results than the alternative.”

“I didn’t ask for details,” Jon grumbled.

“Well, you better get used to hearing them.” She placed a calming hand on his arm. “Jon, I know this is daunting for you. And I promise you, I won’t let you go into this blind. We’ll walk through the basics together and then I’ll bring you a fine courtesan who you can practice with.”

“I’m not a maid, Sansa!” He shrugged her hand off of him. “I know where to put it.”

“Oh!” She looked genuinely surprised. “But then…what’s the problem?”

“The problem?” Closing the distance between them, Jon said, “The problem, Sansa, is that a little over a year ago I believed you to be my sister.”

“But I’m not.”

Uttering a wolfish huff, Jon made to turn his back to her. Sansa grabbed him by the shoulders and held him in place, locking her gaze with his.

“Listen to me. Nobody is going to accuse you of blasphemy. I understand this’ll be difficult and I’m not an ideal choice for a bedfellow, but you won’t be the first king to perform the act out of duty.”

Jon gaped at her. They were standing by a high window looking out into the courtyard. The delicate light of the brassieres set up outside illuminated Sansa’s auburn locks and colored her skin the tint of milk and honey. She was easily the most stunning creature he had ever laid eyes on. And he wanted her. Others take him, he wanted her right there against the window sill. It was wrong. So, so wrong.

“It’s a lot to take in, I know.” Her hands slid down his arms and caressed his hands. “And you’re tired. There’s ample time before your coronation. We’ll discuss this tomorrow afternoon after I’ve performed my services.”

Face smote with trepidation, Sansa took her leave. _I’m not an ideal bedfellow._ Jon did not dare argue. For doing so meant admitting he accepted the proposition. Meant admitting he wanted her.

He retired to his chambers—the King’s suite—and tried to rid his thoughts of Sansa. But Sansa was the only tune his mind could conjure. Sansa, Sansa, Sansa. He shut his eyes and revisited the sight of Sansa carrying out her ritual. The grace with which her body contorted to the force of her prayer. The desire to have her writhing and gasping like that underneath him, against him.

There was no use denying his hand’s slow advance to his small clothes. He freed himself, spat on his palm and stroked his engorged cock sopping wet. He was at the Temple all the while, leaning back as Sansa withdrew from her dancing sisters, knelt before him and wrapped her full pink lips around him. The Chosen Daughter. Moaning. Lightly grazing her teeth against his cock. Her soft, oiled fingers stroking the delicate skin around his balls.

 _That’s it, Sansa._ His strokes speeded up. _Kiss your divine husband’s cock. Drink in his seed._

She sucked the head with a _pop_ and placed a kiss on it. Then with a mischievous smirk, she said, “As you wish, your highness,” and took him in her mouth again.

Jon came _hard,_ coating his thighs and soaking the bed linens. He lay motionless, trying his best to catch his breath. Palpitating, sweating, and unspeakably tired, he fell into a dreamless sleep.   


	3. Chapter 3

“I didn’t think it was true,” Sam admitted pathetically. Their first small council meeting had adjourned, and Jon had just given him an earful about his failure to tell him of the divine union. “Thought it’d be better to make a few inquiries before mentioning it. A public bedding’s the kind of yarn young lads laugh at on the training yard, then jerk off to in their cots.”

Jon’s head snapped up. The world spun out of focus. “What’s that?”

“Come on, mate, we’ve all done it.”

“No, not that. Before—the public bedding.”

“Well, aye, the scriptures say the marriage is to be consummated for nobles and smallfolk alike to witness.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Sam!” Jon slammed the council table.

A throat being cleared made them jump. It was the young guard on duty outside the chamber door. “Her Holiness, the High Priestess wishes an audience, Your Grace.”

Receiving a nod from Jon, the lad let Sansa in. One of her priestesses accompanied her, lugging a fat leather-bound book.

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything important,” Sansa smiled. Jon was glad to see her spirits restored, but it was not enough to shake the annoyance and dread eating away at him.

“Of course not, your Holiness,” said Jon. “We were actually just speaking about you.”

“And preparations for the ceremony, no doubt.”

“Umm – why don’t I leave you two to talk things over?” Sam suggested.

“Oh, that won’t be necessary, Maester Tarly,” Sansa replied. “It’s best His Grace acclimatizes to revealing certain aspects of his private life to his subjects. After all, a king’s life is not his own.”

In the next hour, Sansa related the origins and significance of the divine union to Jon and Sam. How it was believed that a people could only prosper if the children of the Seven and the monarchy worked together. How the tenor of the ceremony dictated the nature of a given king’s rule. Then how the ritual itself was to be performed. The more she revealed, the more squeamish Jon became.

“As your maester, Sam will be the ceremony’s timekeeper,” she said. “The number of peaks the High Priestess – that _I_ am able to attain will signify the good fortune your subjects will enjoy under your rule. The monarch’s climax marks the end. The longer he delays it, the longer, they say, his reign will be. Which is why I think you should reconsider appointing a courtesan.”

Jon’s ears grew warm.

“You’ll be surprised how many women are willing to do it for free,” Sansa pressed.

Jon caught Sam’s bemused eyes darting between her and himself.

“Actually, there are a few lords who’ve offered up their daughters. I can arrange for you to meet them if you like.”

“I think being watched by half the city is deterrent enough.”

Exasperated by his aloofness, she tore her gaze from him and crossed her arms over her chest.

“And I _won’t_ risk siring a bastard,” he said. “I imagine the ritual specifies the manner in which I’m meant to finish.”

“Well...” Sansa exchanged a nervous look with Sam. “Seeing that this is a union between man and wife, you’ll be finishing inside me.”

“Of course, I’ll be.” Jon scoffed. “And what if I am to get you with child?”

“A child born of our union would be a blessing. A sign of plentiful harvests and immeasurable wealth.”

“Sansa…”

“They’d go on to become scholars and soldiers and priests, all committed to protecting and honoring your glory. They’d be a boon to your legacy.” She sighed. “But…as it happens, a child has not been conceived from these unions in over a century.” After a slight pause, “We brew moon tea at the Temple. It’s proven tragically unwise to bear a king’s children.”

The revelation bore down on Jon. As though he had lost something dear to him. But what? Certainly, not anything he had ever had.

“And kings of old…they’ve been all right with that?”

“They were never told,” Sansa said with a small smile.

She was giving him the choice. And though he would never admit to how quickly he came to the decision, the answer was, yes. He would risk having a child with her.

But Sansa did not wait for him to voice his decision. She moved on to the contents of the leather-bound book her companion carried. _The Amare Vade Mecum._  It was for Jon’s instruction on, well…the fine craft of fucking. Recorded within its pages—complete with annotated diagrams, and lists of benefits and drawbacks—were all the positions in which bodily pleasure could be given or received. Sam, uttering a soft squeak, averted his eyes. Jon, though curious, fumed with indignation.

“This won’t be necessary.” Jon tried sliding the book across the table. “I told you. I know—“

“—where to put it. Yes, I know.” Sansa pushed the book back. Leaning across the wide table, she flipped the book open before him. “But there’s more to it than that. See this here?” She pointed at some red and gold calligraphy; a title that read ‘Elephant’. “Every position has an intent, a meaning. One capable of being a symbol for your reign. You’ll have to choose wisely. It can be one or a whole sequence of positions.”

Jon stared at her clean, trimmed nails tapping on the calligraphy. “This is beginning to sound more like a play than a bedding.”

“That’s exactly what it is, Jon!” Sansa said. “Just think of yourself as a mummer.”

“You’re saying Cersei actually agreed to this?”

“Cersei had planned on performing in six positions, but I made her cum before she could even get to the second. Mind you, it wasn’t easy. Cersei’s a very willful woman, and vile as she was, she was very well-versed in seduction. It took all I had to resist peaking.”

The thought of another’s hands on Sansa sickened Jon. Yet, the mental image of her struggling to keep her peak at bay stirred his loins. He gulped.

“Had I not been under the Temple’s protection, she would’ve tied me to a post and whipped me bloody the next morning.” She dug her nails into her palms, grounded herself to the present. “But that’s all in the past. We mustn’t squander the opportunity to pave a better future. You think you’re up to the task?”

Pulling the book closer, Jon thumbed through the pages and grumbled at the dense walls of text. “I’ve got my work cut out from me, haven’t I?”

Chuckling at Jon’s helplessness, Sam leaned closer to Sansa. “I’ve been trying to get him reading for years, your Holiness. The naked drawings might just be what gets him to listen to—OW!”

He rubbed his head where Jon had just thrown a cork. Sansa tried to suppress a laugh—a sweet, melodious thing Jon wanted to hear his every waking hour—but she failed. Happy to see Sansa happy, Jon joined her. The moment was short-lived, though. For when their eyes met, the reality of what was to conspire between them set in. Jon only wished he did not have to wait so long.

#

With the coronation taking place the day of the next new moon, Jon had over a sennight to read the _Amare Vade Mecum_ , and finalize his desired sequence of positions. He had other duties, of course. During the day he met with local nobles and arriving dignitaries, toured the city, and held long small council meetings to discuss reconstruction efforts.

Afternoons were taken up by his audiences with Sansa. While they touched on minute details of the bedding, Sansa used most of her time in his company to report on the smallfolk. If she was apprehensive about the fast approaching ceremony, she did not show it. If she was repulsed by the prospect of fucking him, she did not show it. And if she was as restless to lay with him as he was with her, she definitely did not show it. Her unreadable exterior made her the perfect mediator between a king and his people. Jon appreciated this, but he just wanted his sister. His would-be lover.

Nights were spent training. Jon had not lain with a woman in five years. And not cumming to fantasies of Sansa’s naked, undulating body pressed up against his own was easier said than done. His study of the _Amare Vade Mecum_ did not make things easier. He imagined taking Sansa in every single variation: the Crab, the Diamond, the Angry Pirate. The anvil, where a woman lay on her back with her legs open wide in the air so the man could hammer into her, was a favorite of his. He would not include it in the ceremony, but he usually circled back to it during his ‘training’ sessions.

The day was upon them before long. Jon handed Sansa a scroll listing his chosen sequence during their afternoon audience the day before. To Jon’s relief, Sansa’s eyes lit up as she read it. On finishing, she nodded in approval, rerolled the scroll, and tucked it in her sporran.

“It’s very considerate,” she assured him. Jon caught her licking her lips. “The people will know the generous and honorable king you’ll make.”

“Y-you’re sure you’ll be able to—“ Jon struggled for words. “That one where…I can change it if you don’t want to strain your arms so much.”

“Jon, please. The servants of the Seven are the city’s second line of defense. I may not have your strength and agility, but I’m no weakling.”

They fell silent, nerves and other unspeakable feelings congealing between them.

“Sansa, I—“

Sansa’s gaze lost him his words for a moment.

“Gods help me, Sansa, but there’s something I’ve got to get off my chest.”

She bit her bottom lip. “Mm?”

“I want this. Tomorrow, I mean. I—I want you.”

A sigh of relief escaped Sansa. “Really? Oh, Jon, I was so afraid you didn’t want to bed me.”

Jon grinned sheepishly. “Bedding you is the only thing I could think of while…” He leaned forward to whisper, “… _practicing._ ”

Tears streaming down her face, she threw her arms around him. Both their tense frames relaxed in the others embrace. Yes, they were afraid—of what their deceased family would have thought, of the prying eyes that would be watching them, of the magnitude of what they were about to embark upon. But all of that seemed insignificant. They had each other. And they were lucky for it.


	4. Chapter 4

The coronation took place early in the morning. It was followed by a parade through the city streets that  gave Jon a chance to distribute alms to the poor, and then a lavish feast. After, Jon was given some time to rest and bathe, but not much. It was still early in the spring and days were quite short. At sundown, Jon and his retinue rode for the Temple of Baelor where he was ushered into a private chamber through the back porch. There, he let his freshly washed hair down, undressed, and donned a black robe embellished with silver embroidery and precious stones.

Seats for nobles and throw rugs for the smallfolk had been laid out about the grand cella, as well as on the balconies overlooking it. The bedding area itself was cordoned off on three sides by latticed screens made of wood; the fourth side opened out to the altar. A canopy of sheer drapes had been erected behind the screens to obscure the view through the gaps in the lattice. The result was an illusion of privacy. One that Jon was grateful for when he stepped out of his private chambers.

All in attendance rose to their feet as Ser Davos and Lord Tyrion accompanied him from the back of the temple, past the altar, to the latticed cocoon. Two priestesses parted the drapes and allowed him entry. There, on an assortment of furs and extravagant linens laid out on the floor, Sansa waited on her knees, palms facing skyward, eyes cast down. Jon’s cock twitched as he took in her breasts under her sheer, pale green robe. The garment was studded with white gold, though they were nothing compared to the taut, pink nipples poking through the fabric.

Her eyes trained on the floor, Sansa gracefully rose to her feet. “Who seeks the hand of the Chosen Daughter of the Seven?”

“King Jon Snow, son of Rhaegar Targaryen, ward of Eddard Stark, eternal servant of the Seven Kingdoms and protector of the realm of the living.”

“Do you, King Snow, understand that, in binding yourself to the Chosen Daughter, you will watch over your dominion as is the will of the Seven?”

“I do.”

“Do you, King Snow, promise to act in the interest of your people as is the will of the Seven for as long as your reign shall be?”

“I do.”

One of the priestesses from without handed Sansa a fine, long chain of gold. “Then I shall grant you my hand, King Snow. With this token I make you my divine husband…” She looped it around Jon’s neck. “…so Father, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Warrior, Smith, and Stranger may share their bounties and impart their wisdom through you. So your people may know longlasting peace and harmony.”

She finally looked at him, elated. Jon’s heart skipped a beat. The moment had finally arrived.

They drew apart. Each of the two priestesses helped them remove their robes. Excited murmurs rustled through the cella, startling Jon. Sansa’s exquisite curves and creamy skin had bewitched him so thoroughly he had forgotten they were being watched by near a hundred people. The jolt of realization did not strike him with the paralyzing fear he had expected, though. Rather, it emboldened him. Made him impatient. Possessive, even.

When the two priestesses left, Jon strode over to Sansa. He removed the chain from his neck, unclasped it, threw it over her shoulders to her waist, and used it to tug her flush against him. Sansa, along with the rest of those congregated, gasped. Her lashes fluttered at the feel of his hard cock against her stomach. Fixated by her mouth, slightly ajar, Jon tilted her head up by the neck with a silent request to look. She did. And he was done for.

His lips crashed onto hers. He imbibed her. Burned under every damp breath against his skin. Her soft whimpers coalesced into a yearning moan. One that caught his tired, and beaten body unawares. Invigorated his heart with new life. Jon’s fingers stiffened from the power surging through them. For a moment, he felt himself drifting out of his body.

He broke the kiss and searched Sansa’s eyes. Her astonishment mirrored his own. She felt it too. Whatever this was between them, it felt right.

_Raised in the same household, you say? Aye, as brother and sister._

Sansa leaned in for another kiss. Slowly. Her hands roamed his torso and arms, leaving gooseflesh in their wake.

_No hiding His Grace is quite taken by her, is there? They do make a handsome couple. The past few couplings were rather difficult to watch, wouldn’t you say?_

They hummed. Poured everything left unsaid into their kisses. With some effort, Jon clasped the gold chain about Sansa’s waist, then traced it till both hands rested on the small of her back. To Sansa’s dismay, he broke their kiss, and kissed and sucked down her neck. He buried his nose in the valley of her breasts, basking in the softness cupping his face. Had he not known the finality of death, he would have imagined paradise to be something like this. Giving each nipple a ravenous suck he continued his path down.

He poked his tongue into Sansa’s navel, eliciting an adorable yelp. Snapping the chain against her, then caressing the reddened skin underneath, Jon sat cross-legged between Sansa’s legs. The scent from the thatch of red hair between her legs was dizzying. Slowly grazing his calloused fingers up the inside of her thighs, he looked up at her. She had threaded her fingers together behind her head in a wide-elbowed stance. A small nod. Jon began.

 _The Servant of Justice._ Grunts of approval echoed through the cella.

Stroking Sansa’s mound, Jon unearthed her tiny bundle of pleasure and sucked it as he did her nipples.

“ _Anh..”_ Sansa arched her back, granting him further access.

Jon traced her dampening slit with his finger. Back and forth. Back and forth. All while his tongue swirled confident patterns onto her nub. Sansa’s knees buckled. Her hands threatened to drop from her head to his shoulders. Securing her in place with a firm hold on her arse, Jon whispered into her stomach, “Trust me, Sansa. I’ll protect you, I promise.”

“Mm.”

“I promise,” Jon groaned, latching onto her nub once more.

Sansa’s stomach grew taut. Her knees began to wobble. On and on Jon sucked. With the assurance his kneading hands would keep her from falling, Sansa let go. She came with a dignified gasp. But there was no mistaking the bliss she drowned in.

Somewhere far away, people ululated victoriously. It did not matter. Jon only cared for the woman in his arms. The woman he had sworn to protect.

Sansa found her balance and released her pose. Some of her cum had wetted Jon’s beard. He playfully wiped it against her thigh and lay on his back. Returning his smirk, she turned around and positioned herself over his face. Planting her hands on his hard stomach, she lowered her pussy onto his mouth.

_Seven Hells, it’s the Monk at Prayer! Surely, no king can be so benevolent. You think it’s because she’s his sister? It’s wise of him, though. To prolong the ceremony like this. Greater men have failed to admit they are but red-blooded men._

Unable to bear the slow and calculated ministrations of Jon’s tongue, Sansa rocked her hips against his coarse beard in search of a quicker peak. Jon chastised her with a sharp slap to her arse. Exasperated, Sansa collapsed onto him, moaning, writhing, grazing her breasts against him. Jon did not have to see her face to know she wore a girlish pout. With a chuckle, he thrust his tongue into her folds. Unrelentingly. Until her nails dug into his hips. And another round of tremors took hold of her.

The ululations erupted again. _I fear we’re going to have to keep our women under lock and key from now on. Who’d have thought we’d have a bigger nuisance than Robert Baratheon on our hands? But look there, they may join in the true sense now._

After a brief moment’s respite, Sansa crawled—no, dragged herself—along Jon, smearing thick dollops of her wetness along his chin and chest. His hips jerked at the feel of the soft skin of her stomach brushing against his weeping cock. Now came the hard part. He looked past the sheer canopy. Narrowed his eyes to make out figures whispering amongst themselves, watching him from the balconies. His blood cooled somewhat.

Just not by a lot.  

Sansa gingerly stroked his length. Dragged its head along her dripping folds.

_The Kidnapped Princess, do you think? A most peculiar choice. But given his history, his mother…_

He drew circles on her arse with the pads of his thumbs before resting his hands on her hips. A quiet hiss escaped him as Sansa sheathed his cock inside her. Wet as a seal and a perfect fit. Jon averted his gaze from where they were joined for fear of coming in that instant. Focusing on the complete strangers watching them, he wrapped his arms around Sansa’s waist, raised her just high enough to remove his hips from underneath, and came to a kneeling position. When he had pressed her back to his chest, he kissed her neck, and fondled her breasts to his heart’s content.

 _Ah, not the Kidnapped Princess, but the Keeper of Oaths. Yes, yes, very well chosen. Have you ever laid eyes on a woman so contented as Her Holiness?_ _Why she looks ready to swoon! You think they’ve lain together before? Under Eddard Starks watch? Not likely._

The tightness was excruciating. To Jon’s benefit, the unwieldy position only allowed shallow, less fulfilling thrusts. He did appreciate the closeness it offered.

“How am I – _nngh – doing?”_ He nibbled her earlobe.

“Your Grace – _mmph –_ I think – _mmph_ – you know – _mmph –_ the answer to that.” She reached around and tugged on his hair.

“Kiss me, Sansa.” Jon slid his hand down her stomach to her nub. “Kiss me, while I feel you come around me.”

Sansa obliged, twisting to meet his lips. Drawing closer to another peak, her lips’ efforts waned. They were replaced by heavy pants, thick with desire. For him. Through her lashes, she saw only him.

“Jon…” she whimpered, before succumbing to another wave of pleasure.

Cock still throbbing for release, Jon pulled out of her, sat back on his heels, and held her to him as she came down from her high. His palm lingered on her belly as it rose and fell with each breath. Sansa threw an arm over his shoulder, utterly spent, and hummed absentmindedly.

_Did he cum? No, see there, between her legs. He has more in store for her. More? But he’ll kill the girl!_

“Are you all right?” she asked after a stretch of silence.

“Are _you?_ ”

She stretched her back and legs against him. Giggling at the ache in her muscles, she said, “Someday, you’ll have to tell me where you learned to do that with your tongue.”

Jon buried his nose in the crook of her neck and chuckled. He rocked her on his lap. Their breaths evened. The coil at the pit of his stomach loosened, and the tightness in his balls ebbed. Sansa reached across the furs for a bell he had not noticed before. When she rang it, one of her priestesses brought in a tray carrying two goblets and a platter of nuts and berries. Sansa emptied one goblet and took a sip from the second.

“Wine?” She offered it to him.

“Please.” He tipped all its contents back, smacked his lips at its uncommon tartness, and replaced it on the priestess’ tray. The priestess was eyeing him. And his erect cock. Mortally embarrassed at being caught, she fled from their cocoon in a hurry.

Exchanging a mischievous grin, Sansa drew him in for another open-mouthed kiss.

“You’re sure about this?”

“Yes,” Sansa answered, dazed. Craving more. “Just one thing.”

Jon pulled away, all ears.

“I’m not sure I can peak much more without fainting.”

The side of Jon’s lips pulled up in a smug grin. Sansa smacked him on the shoulder.

“We’ll still go through the rest of your sequence. Just—how about we choose a word I say when I’m ready to switch?”

“Aye, we can do that.”

“All right. How about I say…Lady?”

Smiling, Jon kissed her forehead. “Lady it is then.”

_Ah, they’re starting again! They’re starting again! What do you think she said to him? To get it over with, probably. Oh please, no woman in her right mind would want that. If I had a man like that I’d never—Nobody cares what you want. I see someone’s jealous._

Seated on Jon’s lap, Sansa leaned forward and planted her elbows on a cushion. Jon, grabbing her thighs, stood up and plunged his cock inside her. Arms firmly grounded and legs suspended in the air, Sansa accepted every thrust. Her guttural moans let on that bodily strain was no match for the pleasure being dealt to her.

_My, my! What a sight! The Plow. Oh, they will sing of this during harvests in years to come! Very fortunate. So fortunate. But it’s one thing to have the intent, and another to execute. Look how marvelously Her Holiness holds herself. I dare say she enjoys the challenge. Truly, a union of the divine, these two._

The coil in his stomach threatening to come loose, Jon channeled every bit of his attention to holding Sansa steady. Remembering that finishing now meant ending this most sacred, glorious act with Sansa. One that he would not be able to revisit.

Even partly suspended in the air, Sansa ground her loins against him. Rubbing herself closer to that pinnacle. Her walls twitched in warning. “L-Lady,” she said hoarsely, “Lady, Jon.”

Relieved, Jon lowered her legs. Sansa gracefully and promptly curled into a ball and rolled onto her back. Shoving a cushion under her arse, Jon straightened one of her legs and rested it on his shoulder before impaling her again. Both of them howled at depth the angle allowed them. His pace quickened. _SLAP! SLAP! SLAP!_ The squelching sound echoed through the cella.

_Is this the…no, no, it’s the Protector, isn’t it? Friends, I’m feeling quite the protector myself. I may not leave my bedchambers for some time after this. Aye, if it wasn’t required of me, I would’ve left to fuck my lady out of her senses a long while ago. Aye, I’d do the same. But you’re not married, my lord. Eh, I’d find a red-headed whore to be my High Priestess for the night._

“Oh Jon,” Sansa panted. “I’m so close.”

“ _Mmph”_ _Slap, slap, slap, slap._

“Lady.”

Raising Sansa’s other leg onto his shoulder, Jon crawled further up so he could fold onto her. He pushed into her in one definitive thrust. Sansa squeezed her eyes shut, her mouth open in a silent and grateful sigh. Jon committed the sight to memory. Nothing could, or ever would be so beautiful.

 _Harmony._ _Oh, what I’d do for a man to look at me the way he looks at her. Doesn’t your father know him? Why don’t you just offer yourself up as his mistress? I’ve heard he refused to take a courtesan. Oh? Why? Isn’t it obvious? He loves Her Holiness. Men don’t love like they say in the songs. I think they do._

“You did it Jon.” Sansa writhed, crying out softly at ever slow and sure thrust. “You’re doing it.”

“Aye,” he panted. He could not take anymore. Digging his nails into her thighs, he rammed into her. Every shred of his being seemed to pool at his groin, clenching, pulsing.

“ _Angh – angh – angh – angh,_ ” Sansa cried. Her walls clamped down on him. “Jon!”

The coil of heat inside Jon burst. Her pussy milked his seed till his cock grew limp. Body and mind, both unraveled, and for a moment he thought his soul had abandoned his body to watch his and Sansa’s entwined bodies.

“Mother, have mercy.”

Jon released her legs so she could wrap them about his waist. She kissed his damp shoulders and stroked his hair. For a time, there was only the two of them and the profound act they had just shared. But soon, the ululations outside pierced through their blissful cocoon. Onlookers had traded their whispers back for their actual voices.

Reluctantly, Jon lifted himself off of Sansa. Knowing her serene demeanor was his doing drove him to the brink of tears.

Sansa lovingly stroked his beard and pressed a languid kiss to his lips. “You’ll make a wonderful king, Jon.”

“Your Holiness,” a woman’s voice said. It was one of the priestesses. She held out Sansa’s sheer robe. Beside her, the other priestess offered Jon his.

Sansa wordlessly donned the garment. Then, with a low bow to Jon, she left.

The sadness Jon felt in watching her go was uncalled for. He knew he would see her the very next day. And the day after. And the day after that. But feel sad he did. For a divine union had not just been an act of duty for him, it had been a proclamation of the deepest love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovely readers! This is a day late, but the story sorta spiraled out of control lol. Hope it was worth it!


End file.
